Female fighters recall how the conflict in the northern Tigray destroyed their lives, as fears grow that fighting could resume.
9 hours ago
Hana ZeratsyonBBC Tigrinya
Abeba Amdu
Twenty-two-year-old Abeba Amdu has seen some of the best years of her life consumed by war - and she has no wish to see another conflict in Ethiopia's northern Tigray region, which some fear could be about to break out.
She went to the front lines in 2020 as a Tigrayan soldier to fight in the civil war against the federal army and remains deeply traumatised by her ordeal more than three years after the end of the brutal conflict.
"I lost everything," she tells BBC Tigrinya.
Before the war, Abeba had been a rising football star. Playing since the age of seven, she eventually became a striker for the 70 Enderta female football team at 17.
She saw herself as a feminist, taking on traditional attitudes about women's participation in sport. The teenager was also an outstanding student, studying IT in Tigray's main city of Mekelle, and had a clear vision for her future.
Then the world she knew halted abruptly. First there was the coronavirus pandemic, leading to the suspension of her studies. Then war broke out.
"I was not a believer in war, because I knew what my parents went through," she says.
Abeba was referring to the fact that her mother and father bore the scars of the long and brutal war that finally ended in 1991 with the Tigray People's Liberation Front (TPLF) overthrowing Ethiopia's then ruler Mengistu Haile Mariam.
The TPLF went on to dominate the federal government until 2018, when current Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed took office following huge demonstrations against its repressive rule.
The TPLF then retreated to its stronghold of Tigray, and had a massive fall-out with Abiy over the future direction of the country.
Conflict between the two sides then broke out in 2020, with neighbouring Eritrea entering the war on the side of the federal army.
It ended two years later following a peace deal brokered by the African Union (AU). Its envoy, former Nigerian President Olusegun Obasanjo, put the number of people who died in the conflict at around 600,000.
For Abeba, the call to arms was not just a choice: it was an inheritance of duty.
Growing up in a household steeped in the lore of the TPLF, she was raised on stories of her father's sacrifices from 50 years ago fighting the Mengistu regime. Patriotism and commitment were the very fabric of her upbringing.
But her decision to join the TPLF's armed wing, the Tigray Defence Forces (TDF), was also a desperate response to the fear of being raped as she became aware of women who were sexually abused by the "enemy".
"The perpetrators did not come for one person; I would have had the same fate as the victims. It was the whole situation that forced me to fight."
The thrill of sport gave way to the reality of war. There was constant hunger and a lack of basic necessities, including sanitary pads.
However, the end of the war did not bring the peace Abeba had expected. Returning to her family and her career proved to be its own kind of battlefield.
"Both my body and my mind are traumatised."
She finds herself struggling with isolation - feeling misunderstood by those who had not shared her experience.
"It's now that I understand my father's character - the character of a fighter has a sense of anger. I realise now that it was because he never healed."
Abeba describes a cycle of grief and friction - arguing with loved ones, quitting jobs, and crying in solitude.
The focus required for professional football had evaporated. Though she attempted to return to training, the weight of the "wasted years" made it impossible to reclaim her former edge.
To channel her pain into something productive, Abeba worked briefly as a journalist and also launched "Wegahta," a women's project aimed at mentoring 30 teenage footballers.
She hoped to foster the next generation of players, but financial constraints eventually stalled the initiative.
Ultimately, Abeba views these efforts as a search for a sanctuary rather than a simple career move: "I'm doing all this to find a hiding place."
Selam Hailu
In late January brief clashes were reported between federal troops and Tigrayan fighters, who are demanding the return of areas seized by the neighbouring Amhara region during the conflict.
Drone strikes hit Tigray and flights to regional cities were suspended for nearly a week.
The federal government has also accused Eritrea of meddling in the region but this time backing Tigrayan forces. Eritrea denies the allegation.
For its part, the TPLF accuses the federal government of deploying troops near Tigray's borders in preparation for fresh fighting, while Abiy accuses the group of siphoning state funds to sustain its forces.
"Right now, I see fear everywhere - the fear of another conflict," Abeba says.
"I don't believe war is necessary. We have seen that in the end, it is negotiation - not combat - that provides the solution."
Selam Hailu, a 30-year-old lawyer and mother of two, is also a veteran of the war front and echoes these sentiments.
She joined the fight in September 2021 when, she notes, she was already a mother, her eldest child just five years old.
Her reason was deeply personal. Her parents, retired government employees who had already joined the war, returned exhausted and in a bad condition.
Seeing their plight and hearing their accounts of "sexual violence and mass killings", Selam says she felt compelled to act, and along with her younger sister, she went to join the Tigrayan forces.
Like other women, they first received short but intensive military training.
Selam found life in the mountains of Tigray challenging: "For me it was difficult to urinate in the wild."
The hardship was compounded by sexism.
"No-one understands when we are menstruating and our behaviour changes," Selam explains.
The most insidious battle, however, was the military leadership.
"The problems within the army were that they did not believe that a woman was talented, capable," she says.
She noticed that a teenage female fighter who was "not afraid of a bullet, was afraid of an officer's word or punishment", and many of them remained silent when coerced into relationships.
As she was older and a lawyer, she spoke out against such "unprincipled relationships" - and was punished by being detained for a night.
Selam also worries that war could break out again: "Young people are fleeing the city by any means, legal or illegal. We can see the terror written on everyone's faces.
"People are hoarding whatever they can, convinced that their savings are all that stands between them and total ruin.
"No-one needs peace more than we do - we simply cannot afford another sacrifice."
Rahwa Gebremedhin
For 30-year-old Rahwa Gebremedhin, a lecturer at Mekelle University, the war felt like an intrusion on her hopes rather than a meaningful political cause.
Her professional life had just started, and she had the aspirations of her generation, to have a house, a car, and children.
However, she joined Tigrayan forces because of the atrocities committed by "enemy forces".
"I was shocked by the killings. I was angry because women were sexually assaulted, everything was being destroyed."
As an academic, her military knowledge came from war films.
"It was difficult, mastering the landscape, arming, training," she says.
The emotional and psychological toll of the war was immense, and the transition back to civilian life has proved challenging.
"You can see all the symptoms of PTSD [post-traumatic stress disorder] from me. Every woman was traumatised.
"I got back to my lecturing job, but it's not the same. I don't feel anything.
"I'm just trying to survive."
Getty Images/BBC
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